


Isolation

by Uniasus



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen, Light Angst, Nap Time, Whumptober, that crowley is never allowed to have again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 11:29:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20947613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uniasus/pseuds/Uniasus
Summary: It's not the longest time gap between visits, but it's enough to make Aziraphale worry. Is Crowley okay? Did something happen?Or did something not happen, driving him away?Aka Aziraphale does not handle Crowley's century-long nap very well.





	Isolation

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Day 7 of the 2019 Whumptober challenge. The theme was Isolation.

Around 1820, Aziraphale started to wonder if something happened. At that point, it'd been roughly forty years since he'd seen Crowley. Not as long as some of their other gaps, but they had been getting shorter lately. Enough so that forty years felt worrying long.

Especially since, when trying to contact the demon on and off for the past three years, he'd gotten no answer.

The problem was, Aziraphale realized when he found himself desiring a dinner or play companion that companion had to be Crowley. Not only did he not think anyone in the Host would want to join him, but he also didn't _want _any of them there.

Crowley, despite being a demon and the reason original sin existed, was a good being. His actions might have negative consequences, but Aziraphale doubted he was ever purposefully malicious. As such, Aziraphale had come to enjoy his company. Sought it out, once in a rare while, when Crowley had been away too long.

And now, in 1820, he believed he could name the emotion, the sad and itchy feeling he got when not seeing Crowley, as loneliness.

Which should be ridiculous.

Angels shouldn't get lonely, not connected to the Host as they are, and yet...

And yet, all he wanted was to sit across from Crowley for a meal and the inability to do so made me melancholy.

The inability to get a hold of him made Aziraphale nervous.

It was possible Crowley simply wasn't home for the past three years, on a hellish mission perhaps, but that seemed awfully long. And unusual, for typically he would use The Arrangement as a reason to tell Aziraphale about it.

He could have moved, but again, why wouldn't he tell Aziraphale?

Aziraphale came up with excuse after excuse for Crowley's absence, but none of them perfectly fit the situation. Not unless he was missing a piece.

And in 1821, during one of his calls to the party line, he was told that Crowley's number had been disconnected.

* * *

He spent five years walking through London and trying to find a trace of Crowley. When he found none, and still Crowley didn't contact him, Aziraphale began to think other thoughts.

Maybe Hell had dragged Crowley back. Maybe he'd been discorporated.

_ Maybe, _ said the voices in the dark corners of the bookshop at three in the morning, _he left you_.

_ Maybe he changed his mind about you. Hates how good you are, hates the bookshop, hates that you won't call him a friend. Maybe he got tired of you, packed up his bags, and left for America _ .

_ Maybe he's not coming back, you'll never see him again _ .

All of a sudden, London seem both very large and very tiny. There was so much to do, see, experience. Aziraphale wanted none of it. He wanted to sit in his armchair and not move.

Which is exactly what he did for two weeks until Gabriel came down asking for an Earthly update. Aziraphale said something about temporarily driving Crowley out of London, which Gabriel backhandedly commended him on.

The Host never told Aziraphale he did a good job. Crowley did that.

Crowley would tell him he picked good wine or did a good deed. Even when he rolled his eyes, Aziraphale detected a hint of fondness. He'd given Aziraphale a nickname. Given Aziraphale gifts. Given him so much.

Was that why he left? Because Aziraphale hadn't given anything in return?

He started collecting wine he thought the demon would like: rich, full-body reds, oaky chardonnays, a spiced mead. Picked up a bronze belt buckle with a snake. Snakeskin boots. A snake tipped cane. Future gifts, for when they met again. Things to say _I thought of you, I missed you, Please don't leave me again._

He took a trip to New York City. Then walked through Boston, and Philadelphia, and New Orleans. He didn't find Crowley.

* * *

Back in London, Aziraphale faced the very real question of what to do without Crowley in his life. The rest of eternity stretched before him: sad, lonely, forever alone.

The demon had, in his own way, made life on Earth worth it. He was excitement and change and energy and suave charm, but most importantly someone to share things with. Crowley would talk about plays with him, pick apart music with him, identify wine flavors, sample new restaurants, sit on the couch and listen to Aziraphale babble.

Life was worth living with others, Aziraphale learned. You could be the best at anything, but you'd still need someone to share your joys with. Your pride. Your sadness. Your fear. Your honest smile.

Despite all of Aziraphale's earthly pleasures, his books and food and ducks, the planet was now out of reach. Crowley's leaving had made Aziraphale's life dim, and as a consequence he felt isolated from all that had once made him happy.

* * *

Time... slipped. Aziraphale tried to keep busy, to place himself in the world, but oftentimes he'd lose himself in old plays. Think to attend a restaurant's opening weekend, only to find out it was seven years prior. He tried to make friends with the humans who walked into his shop, but little came of it. They wanted to buy books, he didn't want to sell them, and he was so out of touch with the times he usually connected with the elderly who had no energy for late-night shows and drinking binges.

More than once, he thought about asking Gabriel for a new position. Relocate to the Continent. Or return to Heaven. But he knew it wouldn't make him feel better. And a small part of him hoped that one day, Crowley would show up again.

Aziraphale would show him in gifts. Tell him he missed him. Help him find a nearby apartment. And ask Crowley to tell him everything: what he'd seen, what he'd done, enjoyed, disliked, live.

Crowley had slid into Aziraphale's life, and the angel wanted to do the same. After all, if he did, it might prevent Crowley from leaving a second time.

* * *

The sound of the shop door ringing pulled Aziraphale out of his stupor. He hadn't thought he'd open the store today, but he might have opened it yesterday, or two days ago, and never thought to close it.

Pushing himself out of his chair, he went to shoo the customer out.

Standing before him, dressed to the nines in the height of fashion, was the demon Anthony Crowley.

"Crowley!"

"High ho, Aziraphale."

"Where have you been?!"

"Napping."

"Napping!"

"Yes, napping."

"For almost a hundred years?"

"Ah." Crowley sheepishly held out a box of chocolates. "Only meant to sleep for a few years. Woke up covered in dust and stiff as Hell."

Aziraphale didn't take the chocolates. "Sleeping. All this time. Here in London?"

Crowley nodded. " 'Course. Where else would I go? You're here."

"Oh." Aziraphale didn't blush, but if he had a working human body he suspected he might.

All the gifts he'd gathered for Crowley over that past fifty years didn't make a difference, none would compare to the knowledge that Crowley hadn't left him. That Crowley had been in London the entire time _because Aziraphale was there. _That Crowley, in a similar manner to Aziraphale's own feelings, couldn't imagine life without the other.

"Come and eat these with me, dear boy." Aziraphale led the way into his shop, "And I'll catch you up on the nineteen century."


End file.
